his bleeding left arm. “A true daughter of the dead Ameer!”
“Brood of the spotted tiger's brood!”
“A real Gengizkhani, by Allah and by Allah!”
“Her father was the sickle, and she is the hoe!”
“Admirable!”
The last from the Sheik-ul-Islam who was rubbing an ear that the sword had nicked, and Gulabian, who had hid behind Tagi Khan's broad back, stepped forward and kowtowed low; the others followed suit, and again Aziza Nurmahal seized the psychological moment.
“We understand each other—now!” she said, and a smile ran from lip to lip, a smile of admiration, this time, of affection even. “There will be no granting of concessions until the return of Hajji Akhbar Khan, Itizad el-Dowleh. Nor will there be discussing, nor criticizing, nor wondering, nor speculating. Is that understood?”
“Listen is obey, O sultana!” came the groveling chorus.
“Good!”
She turned to the nurse.
“Since thou dost not agree with me in the matter of the concessions, and since thou art too old to be beaten and since I love thee too dearly to give thee the point of the sword when it is red, I shall send thee back to the harem, where thou belongest. Thou art no longer regent—no longer the Shadow of the Queen. But thou shalt live out thy life in the shadow of the queen's affection.”
By this time, Gulabian, the Armenian, had regained the insolent, wheedling resiliency of his race.
